Not Andersen Prunty

The Toothless

It’s movie night with Dorb. We started inviting him over on Thursdays because it seemed like he might have been close to committing suicide.

I’m sitting on the couch with Heidi when the doorbell rings.

“It’s probably Dorb,” I say.

“I’ll get it,” Heidi says. She always gets the door. Says it’s good for her thighs.

She opens the door.

“Dorb!” I shout from the couch.

“Hey guys,” he says, giving us his toothless grin.

I stand, really feeling it. “It’s your week to pick. What do you got?”

He holds up a DVD or maybe a Blu-ray in a plastic bag. We normally just stream stuff.

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

“Let’s fire up the DVD player.” I can’t remember the last time we used it.

Heidi says, “I’ll go get the popcorn.”

Dorb sits in the middle of the couch, staring intensely at the blank screen.

I hold my hand out for him to give me the disc. He unsheaths it from the plastic bag and hands it to me. I inspect it. There are no graphics or writing on the disc.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Not sure it has a title.”

“Oh,” I say. “Experimental.”

He grins and nods his head, this time keeping his mouth closed around his gums.

Heidi comes out of the kitchen with a massive bowl of popcorn she places on the coffee table in front of Dorb.

I slide the disc in, expecting a menu screen to pop up. It doesn’t, so I quickly hit pause on the remote.

“We ready?” I say.

When Dorb and Heidi both affirm, I cut the lights and join them on the couch, sitting to Dorb’s left. We like to encourage guests to sit in the middle so they feel firmly within our bubble.

After squinting to find the button, I hit play on the remote.

On the screen, a fit middle-aged man in a tank top has a girl, maybe eleven or twelve, by the hand. They walk toward the camera. The man looks exceptionally sleazy. They pass the camera and we see they are in the young girl’s bedroom. The next few minutes make me incredibly uncomfortable. My stomach is in knots. I cough and stand up.

I look at Heidi and say, “You wanna help me with that thing in the kitchen?”

She looks surprised and I have to give her the look that tells her she really wants to help me with that thing in the kitchen.

“Want me to pause it?” Dorb says.

“Nah,” I say. “It’s okay. You can let us know if we miss anything.”

Heidi and I head into the kitchen. I’m sure Dorb realizes how abnormal this is. We typically do not talk during movies and one of us never just leaves the room without pausing it.

Once in the brightness of the kitchen, I give Heidi a look that says, “Can you believe this?”

“What?” she says, almost mad.

“Were you … enjoying that?”

“I don’t know. It’s only been going for a few minutes.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s child—”

She presses a finger to my lips. She doesn’t want me to say it because she’s afraid the FBI will come swarming down on the house.

“What are we supposed to do?” she says.

“Tell him to take his movie and go the fuck home.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“First of all, he works with us, so how awkward would that—”

I cut her off. “How awkward will it be if we go back to work and we’ve all collectively sat around watching … that.”

“Secondly, we’ll be accused of being toothist.”

“Oh, come on, I’m not toothist.”

“You know what? I think maybe you are. I think the only reason you started inviting him over was so you could tell people you have a toothless friend. Meanwhile, you can run around judging all the toothless people the same way you always have.”

“I started inviting him because he seemed lonely and I felt sorry for him.”

“Toothist.”

“I’m not watching the rest of that.”

“Why? You don’t know what’s going to happen. You don’t even know if it’s anything illegal. That could just be a … very young-looking actress.”

“Are you defending it?”

“Or what if it’s foreign? They have different ages of consent, you know.”

“Pretty sure it’s still illegal to watch it here.”

“If we make him leave, it’s going to devastate him.”

“Fine. Since you obviously want to watch it, just tell him I’ve got a stomach bug.”

She huffs. “You’ll have to pass him to get to the stairs. You can tell him yourself.”

Suddenly, I really do feel sick.

“And, you know, he didn’t lose his teeth naturally. He had them all pulled. A lot of people are doing it to, they say, ‘shed light on socio-economic differences’.”

Heidi looks at me with utter resignation. “I never realized what a toothist ass you are. Now I guess I know how you really see people.”

My stomach is churning. When I open the door and hear the sounds coming from the television, I don’t even have to pretend to look miserable.

Stumbling back into the living room, Heidi behind me, I say, “Sorry, Dorb, must have had something off for dinner. I gotta go lie down. You two enjoy the rest of the movie.”

I manage not to look at the screen and practically sprint up the stairs. Once I’ve reached the top of the stairs, Dorb says, “I can leave it here if you think he wants to watch it but … I don’t think he does. He liked that movie we watched last week so much, I was sure he’d like this one.”

“Lolita?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, you know, he’s kind of a snob about movies.”

I can practically see Dorb’s toothless face twisted into distatsteful agreement.

I feel guilty. Like I’ve created this monster. I shut the door so I don’t have to hear anything else. I’m not a jealous person anyway and know I have no fear of anything happening between Dorb and Heidi and, if I’m going to be honest, it’s because I can’t picture Heidi making out with someone who has no teeth no matter how toothist she claims not to be. I lose myself in thought, thinking maybe I’ll become openly toothist, building some arguments for it. I realize what a slippery slope it could be. I don’t want to be seen as a bigot. Plus, it doesn’t really matter to me what people want to do with their teeth. Most people’s just rot out anyway.

Heidi comes up about an hour later.

She seems wild. She yanks the bedclothes off me.

“Dorb go home?” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, almost breathless.

“Did he take that thing with him?”

“Yeah. But he wanted to leave it. Take off your underwear.” She’s pulling her shirt up over her head, unbuttoning her jeans and shucking them down her legs. I quickly strip off my underwear. She crawls into bed, lowering herself slowly onto my cock.

She unsnaps her bra and tosses it off. She’s grinding into me ferociously. “It was—”she breathes—“exactly what you thought.”

August 4, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, comic fiction, film and entertainment
The Joke

As a joke, a man’s wife serves him with divorce papers. She has them sent, already signed by her, to his place of work. Understanding dawns on him as he reads through the papers. He still doesn’t get the joke so he assumes his wife wants a divorce.

“Oh boy,” he says, placing his forehead against the smooth wood of his desk. The man’s name is John, but everyone calls him Foot because of his condition. He remains with his head down, gently tapping his forehead against the wood. This is completely out of the blue. Just last week, he and his wife took a vacation to the remote island of Gonop. How could she? Why would she? He just doesn’t understand …

Later that day a coworker comes by his office and sees him still in the head down position. “What’s wrong, Foot?” the coworker says.

“It’s my wife,” Foot says, not raising his head.

“I’m sorry. Is something the matter with her?”

Foot raises his head. His eyes are red and watery. “She wants a divorce.”

“Welcome to the club,” the coworker says, raising a fist of solidarity and strolling back into the office.

Throughout the day, Foot’s anger builds. She has no right to do this, he thinks. Not without any explanation whatsoever. That kind of thing just isn’t done. By the time he gets home, he is ready to tell her all of this. He is ready to throw the papers across the room and tell her they are meaningless but, upon opening the door to his house, Foot is once again shocked.

Taking the joke one step further, his wife has decided to sleep with another man. She and her lover are actually in the act when Foot walks through the door. They are on the couch. The man wears a buckskin coat and nothing else as his hips dive vigorously between Foot’s wife’s legs.

“Oh,” his wife says between moans. “You’re home.”

The man continues to pound away.

Foot, still holding the divorce papers in his hands, brandishes them at his wife. “Jesus Christ!” he shouts, strolling across the room to grab the buckskinned man by the shoulder. “Get the hell off my wife!” He jerks the man away. His wife makes no attempt to cover herself. The man only looks emptily at him, absently toying with his huge penis.

His wife looks surprised. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset, Footy.”

“You serve me with divorce papers and then I come home to find you fucking another man. You don’t understand why I’m upset?”

“It was … just a joke,” she says, giggling.

“A joke!” he shouts.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just a joke. Pretty good one, huh?”

The buckskinned man laughs. His laugh is very deep. The laugh of a simpleton, Foot thinks.

Still, a sense of relief washes over him. Sitting down on the couch beside his wife he says, “You mean, you don’t really want a divorce?”

“Of course not,” she says. “I told you, it was just a joke.”

“A joke, huh?” Foot puts the divorce papers on the coffee table. The buckskinned man is edging toward the front door, still naked except for the coat. “What about him?” Foot says.

“Oh, he was part of the joke. That’s Norman. He works at the hardware store on the corner.”

“I thought he looked familiar,” Foot says.

“You just need to lighten up,” his wife says, swiping his arm with her hand. “You’re such a stick in the mud.”

“Yeah,” Foot says. “I guess I can be.”

Norman leaves through the front door and, looking at his wife sitting complacently on the couch, Foot finally gets it.

July 28, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, comic fiction, divorce, free stories, practical jokes
Throat Wad

I awake with a wad in my throat. I turn to the prostitute sleeping beside me and viciously nudge her jailhouse-tattooed shoulder. Frantically, I try to tell her about the wad in my throat but everything comes out all garbled.

“I can’t fucking understand you, you little creep!” She’s very abusive. Has been ever since I paid her. When did they start staying over anyway?

I jump up on the bed, bashing my head into the ceiling, pointing at my throat and spouting jumbled gibberish.

“You need a doctor, honey!” Why does she talk so loud?

I flip on the light but can’t find the phone. I hold my hand to my ear in the universal phone gesture.

“Yeah yeah. Hold your horses. I’m gettin to it.”

She rolls out of bed and squats down. The phone tumbles from her vagina. I vaguely recall the antics from earlier that evening before I went into the haze.

“I’m takin off. You make it impossible for a girl to sleep.”

She pulls on some stained underwear and a white snowsuit before heading outside.

I dial emergency. A woman answers. She sounds tired. “Yeah?”

I growl and gurgle into the phone.

“Hold on,” the operator says. I hear a feverishly whispered conversation followed by a burst of laughter.

An authoritative male voice comes on the line. “What seems to be the problem?”

I growl and hiss.

“Sounds to me like you have a nice-sized throat wad.”

That sounds about right.

“We’ll send somebody out.”

I turn on all the lights in the house so I don’t feel so alone. Two hours later, just before dawn, the prostitute barges through the front door. She now has a dripping red cross painted onto the front of her snowsuit. She smells gamey and glistens with sweat.

“I had to run all the way back here. They sent me to take care of your throat wad.”

I nod and point to my throat.

She crosses the room and straddles me in a way familiar to the lap dance she gave me earlier.

“Open up,” she says. “I’m the only one who can do this on account of my small hands.”

She holds her right hand in front of my face, flexing it. It is ridiculously small.

I open my mouth and she reaches down into my throat. She pulls out a screaming newborn. I try to talk—to express dismay, utter thanks, anything—but I’m still choked up.

She plops the baby, male, onto the floor and says, “Twins?”

She reaches in again.

She pulls out another baby and places it next to the first one.

This goes on for the next several minutes. I lose count after twenty-one.

Finally, she says, “All clear.”

Now, looking at the squirming mass of babies, I’m too astonished to talk. The prostitute heads toward the door and says, “I’ll be back in a couple hours. You’re gonna need a babysitter.”

She’s absolutely right. I don’t know what to do with all these babies. I strip off my clothes, collapse to the ground, and pretend to be one of them.

July 21, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty
The Tailors

My pants make me depressed. They make me feel sad and fat. I stop in the middle of the room and summon Rugby, my bodyguard. I sling an arm over his shoulder, my legs weak. I beg him to call the tailor to come and alter my pants. Rugby goes outside and constructs a mammoth fire in the front yard. I collapse to the floor, staring down at my pants. The tailors arrive by bus. A whole fleet of tailors run from the bus and invade the house. They say the carpenter has the worst looking house on the block and the same could be said for the tailors’ clothes. They are all ill-fitting. Binding. Too loose. Voluminous, in some cases. And their selection is poor. Logo t- shirts and jeans. Out of date clothes that look they were purchased from a second-hand store. I have little faith in them. They prop me up and take measurements. A man with an outgrown mohawk, wearing a denim skirt with a flag embroidered across the chest pulls out a pair of scissors and snips the air.

They set to work.

I black out.

When I wake up, I’m sweaty and famished. I’m in my bed. I toss back the covers and hop out. I feel refreshed. There is a definite spring in my step. I look down at my newly tailored pants. They are very sleek. Almost a part of me.

When I get downstairs, I find Rugby entertaining the tailors. He explains to me the great sacrifice they all went through to reconstruct my pants. One by one, the tailors lift their shirts and drop their pants and I see missing flesh and hair. As I squat down to test the give in the pants I realize their sacrifice was worth it and, looking at them, I see they are all smiling, proud of their craft.

July 14, 2023

andersen prunty
Bonus 3

Cabbage Suits

They wore cabbage suits. Completely biodegradable. They squeaked a lot. Then people started lubing up.

July 12, 2023
Bad Air

The children are the first to go outside. We, the parents, can’t keep them in anymore. Besides, we’re all curious how it is out there.

Our son and daughter charge through the yard and right into the street. We don’t have to worry. There isn’t any traffic anymore. My wife and I watch them through the big living room window.

“Huh, look at em go,” my wife says.

“Go lock the door,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“We don’t know what’s out there. Can’t have them bringing it back in. They’re tainted.”

She does it, begrudgingly, shoulders slumped. I can tell she’s struggling inwardly, feeling like a bad parent.

I walk over to her, place a hand on her shoulder, and say, “This doesn’t make you a bad parent.” Her eyes are still glazed with doubt, so I say, “I’ll get the wine,” and she perks up considerably.

We get completely trashed. Other than an occasional beer or glass of wine at dinner, we’ve tried to keep drinking to a minimum unless the kids are at their grandparents’. Their grandparents are all dead now. They were the first to go.

There are now a lot of children in the yard and streets. Our boy, Aiden, smashes out the window on my wife’s car parked in the driveway. He has a girl with him. I don’t recognize her. They’re both smoking and holding bottles of beer.

“Huh, looks like Aiden’s already got himself a girlfriend,” I say.

“He’s too young for that kind of thing,” my wife says.

“Relax. They don’t have a future anyway.”

By nightfall, the fires become more visible. Looking down our once quiet street, a house burns here and there. In the distance, the city is an orange glow.

“We really should unlock the doors,” my wife says.

“Nonsense,” I say. “I’m tired and wasted. I wouldn’t feel safe.”

Deeper into the night, most of the streetlamps have been pulled down or shattered by rocks and assorted debris. We’ve been locked inside so long, I’m envious of the chaos and fun they’re having. It’s all my imagination at this point. I can’t actually see anything.

I lower the blinds and say, “I think it’s time for bed.”

My wife and I retreat to the bedroom and have the wildest, best sex we’ve had since we were dating. We fall asleep shellacked in sweat and various other bodily substances and I think, I don’t want to wake up.

We are woken up by the shattering of windows. Or, at least, I am. My wife may have taken too much of the wrong thing and might be dead. I don’t know.

The bedroom is darker than it’s ever been but I can sense someone standing in the doorway.

“Aiden? Katrina?”

“Yes, Father?” they both slur.

“It’s your world now. We’re leaving it to you.”

“It’s garbage. We have to redo everything.”

“Well,” I say, “I guess it worked okay for us … or something.”

Those are my last words.

July 7, 2023

andersen prunty
Bonus 2

How We Spend the 4^th

When the kids were younger, we used to pack them up and fly somewhere that didn’t celebrate the 4^th. Or, if they did, it was in a less percussive fashion. But that got expensive.

Now we lock down. Even though it’s usually a gorgeous summer day, we stay inside with the blinds drawn. The kids want to go outside and play but we tell them it’s too dangerous. We tell them we’ve lost our jobs. We tell them we’ve had to move to the rough part of town, the part they’re always hearing about on the news. They’re way too dumb to realize they’re in the same house. They’re excited about the loud sounds outside. We tell them that’s the sound of people shooting other people. They believe us because they don’t even know what a calendar is. They still want to go out and see until it starts to get really loud.

We tell them to get to bed right after dark, saying “It might be the last night you ever get to sleep. And trust me, if that happens, you’ll be thankful you’re not awake.”

They stare at us with blank eyes.

“What we’re trying to say is … we just hope they don’t make it inside.”

It takes them a while to get to sleep but we don’t go into their room to quiet them because they’re already being quiet, speaking in hushed, terrified whispers. All we have to do is walk by the door and they’re immediately silent, fearing we might be intruders. Hopefully they end up with decent survival skills, at least.

We pour some wine and laugh and bitch about the fireworks the way we used to bitch about the kids and we wonder what it’s like to live in a bad area. When it’s finally quiet, we get a little sad.

We both remain mysterious to one another.

July 4, 2023

4th of july, absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, comic fiction
Green and Gray

We’re in the mountains. Just the two of us. Dusk. Gray, not black. The insect sounds are everywhere. The bright green trees drip with early summer heat. We’re dressed up. Clean. Smell great. We’ve escaped from a gathering. We can hear the laughter, the glasses clinking. Fun and conversations being had. Neither of us hate it, but we don’t want to be anywhere except here. In the distance, thunder rumbles. The sky turns purple from lightning we cannot see. Now is our time. We could go back into the gathering, surround ourselves with beaming smiles under the white fairy lights.

Or we could run.

Deeper into the woods, away from the storm, into the darkness, and wait for it. Wait to get caught. Out in it.

I imagine the others, the storm forcing them inside, their night ruined.

But I’m here with you, outside, in the dark, waiting for the storm to break over us.

June 30, 2023

andersen prunty
The Folk Singer

I’m in my house enjoying a cocktail when I hear a loud commotion coming from outside. Upset, I groan and hurl my cocktail across the room. The glass shatters dramatically against the stone hearth. Cautiously, I saunter over to the door and gently part the curtains just far enough to see outside. There, on the front lawn, bathed in floodlights, a group of people are rioting.

What could they possibly be rioting over? I wonder.

It doesn’t seem to be a race riot. They are all predominantly white. All ages seem represented, as well. An old lady uses a chain to strap a teenager, sprawled on the ground and howling with pain. This could get ugly, I think. Better try and calm them down. I figure a folk song is just the thing.

With my acoustic guitar, I drift elegantly out onto my front porch. After the first chords, I have their attention. Now is the time to placate them with my soothing, dreamlike words. I start singing, the voice of an angel, but the words are coming out all wrong. I’m spouting hate, goading them. The guitar playing becomes driving and frantic.

Within a minute, they are back at it, harder than before. The old woman goes back to lashing the teenager, her mouth twisted into an angry snarl. Confused, I hurl the guitar out into the crowd where it takes out a toddler-sized girl. I retreat into the house, locking the doors and waiting for the first rock to come through the window.

June 23, 2023

absurdist fiction, andersen prunty, folk singers, free stories
Bonus 1

I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and it’s wonderful.

June 18, 2023